Thanksgiving is an American holiday, begun in 1621, in which we offer thanks to God for the fact that our pilgrims miraculously managed to survive yet another year in one of the harshest environments ever settled in early America, prior to the establishment of the city known as Detroit.

Today, Detroit celebrates "devils night" by burning the city to the ground and then living amongst the ruins. We've come a long way, baby.

But I digress.

The original Thanksgiving celebration was really little more than a 3 day party between pilgrims and American Indians in which it is likely that there was excessive drinking of alcohol, embarrassingly bad dancing, possibly some nudity and drunken sexual fumbling, and lots and lots of eating. Of food, I mean. They were eating food. There are no records relating to the eating of, I mean, relating to oral sex during the pilgrims' reign, although it is likely that some of this occurred.

Thanksgiving was not declared an official holiday in America until 1863, when then-President Abraham Lincoln, immensely unpopular at that time, needed a boost in the polls. He had already managed to kill off over half the male population of the entire North American continent. He imprisoned nearly a quarter of the remaining population of the northern United States in concentration camps for the crime of opposing his unpopular invasion of the Confederate southern States. His constant release of libelous letters "accidentally" leaked to the press in which he admits to hamstringing the Union army in an effort to sabotage his fiercest political rival, the very popular war hero, General McClellan did nothing to raise his standing in the eyes of the people, although it did lower their opinion of the General.

The original Thanksgiving Day pilgrims were members of the English Separatist Church, a Puritan sect that enjoyed a good leg of lamb and a beer. 56 Pilgrims and 91 American Indians joined together, stuffed their faces and got plastered. Then some of the women took off their tops and danced on the tables.

This is not officially confirmed, but we have reason to believe that it is likely true.

That Thanksgiving feast was not repeated again the next year. It was originally simply a celebration of having survived the previous year and come through with a bountiful harvest. The next celebration was in June of 1676 and is thought not to have included the topless table-dancing American Indians due to the large number of impregnanted women from the first celebration and various embarrassing nude photos on Pilgrim cell phones which eventually found their way onto the ancient internet.

One hundred years later, in 1777, the third official Thanksgiving celebration occurred. This celebration involved all residents of all 13 American colonies and thankfully saw the return of topless table-dancing Indian women and drunken impregnation by all. It was inspired by the recent victory over the British at Saratoga during the war for American independence.

George Washington proclaimed a National Day of Thanksgiving in 1789, although some were opposed to it (mothers of some of the girls who had turned up mysteriously pregnant in the following weeks.) There was discord among the colonies, many feeling the hardships of a few topless, table-dancing pilgrims did not warrant a national holiday. And later, President Thomas Jefferson opposed the idea of having a day of thanksgiving, allegedly out of fear that his no-good brother would use it as an excuse to impregnate every woman in sight, including Thomas Jefferson's own slaves. His fears turned out to be well-founded.

Thanksgiving was proclaimed by every president after Lincoln. The date was changed a couple of times, most recently by Franklin Roosevelt, who set it up one week to the next-to-last Thursday in order to create a longer Christmas shopping season. Public uproar against this decision caused the president to move Thanksgiving back to its original date two years later. And in 1941, Thanksgiving was finally sanctioned by Congress as a legal holiday, as the fourth Thursday in November.

And this, my friends, is why so many Americans are fat.

Recently, ancient video of one of the original Thanksgiving celebrations was discovered. The following is video believed to show the Navarro tribe, including famous Indian princess Elle, preparing for a Thanksgiving celebration in the Indian "city of angels" back in 1808:

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A man walking alone near a McDonald’s in Langley, British Columbia, was dealt a savage kick to the groin in what seemed to be a random attack.

The assailant is described as a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, Caucasian woman aged in her 20s or younger, and likely a feminist. She wore high heels, (Steve Madden flouro green stilletos, approximately sized 7, according to a female witness who greatly admired the shoes) when she kicked her 22-year-old victim so hard that he completely left the ground and landed face-first on the concrete as one of his testicles ascended into his abdomen with the force of the pointed-toe kick.

Initially it was thought that surgery could repair the damage. Unfortunately, the violence of the kick had ruptured the testicle and the victim woke from anesthesia to the news that he had been partially castrated.

Police believe that this is not the first time that the assailant has struck, with three similar attacks reported in September alone.

According to the victim, who has declined to be named:

"She didn’t say anything to me. I thought either she is really disgruntled with her boyfriend and I was the first male she saw or she’s a feminist. My mom heard from some constables that this is the third time in the past month this has happened. One of the times happened at night."

The victim noted that his attacker said nothing to him, either before or after the attack.

"I don't think she really even saw me as a person. Or perhaps she has some strange accent that might have given her away? I don't know."

Langley RCMP are concerned that some men might not have come forward about the attacks, likely believing that there is hardly any point as the woman will undoubtably not be punished for her crimes anyway. Authorities are turning to a crime analyst to track the attacks, but aren't sure how to proceed.

Men walking in the Brookswood area may want to consider wearing a sports cup, after a man was randomly kicked in the groin by a woman in high heels last month. The kick was so violent, her victim has lost one testicle and had to be hospitalized.

The crime has police concerned and the young man warning he isn’t the only victim of this high-heeled sexual-assault queen.

“It was around 2 p.m. in early September and I was walking by myself to McDonald’s, which is just on 41 Avenue,” said 22-year-old “Ed” (not his real name).

“The girl was walking in the opposite direction as me and I didn’t think anything of it, when all of a sudden she laid the boots to it.”

In absolute agony, Ed fell to the ground, face-first, as his hands flew involuntarily to his violated genitals, leaving him unable to catch himself. He thinks he had lain there for around 15 minutes before gaining the strength to get up and go home. Before or after the attack, the woman said nothing.

“I'm concerned that nothing is going to be done. They aren't even sure what to charge her with. I mean, it's sexual assault, but they say the law doesn't define sexual violence against males that way. And if she's a feminist, it's a sex-specific hate-crime, as she clearly targeted me because of my sex, but they say they won't charge her for that, either. So what's the point of reporting it then? What are they going to charge her with, being really, really rude or something?”

As the assault is not the kind of thing men want to tell people about, Ed didn’t go to police right away.

The damaging blow to his testicles sent one of them up into his abdomen.

“I saw a specialist and I went into surgery believing they could bring my testicle down again, like in that movie "10 Things I Hate About You." But when I woke up from surgery I was given the bad news that it had partially ruptured and so they had to remove it.”

He will get a prosthetic in December, for whatever that's worth. But, from what he has been told, there will be a drop in his testosterone levels which will have life-long detrimental effects. Ed is coming forward because he wants the girl caught, even if he doesn't believe she'll be adaquately punished, because he doesn’t want anyone else to go through the terrible and life-altering things he has been through.

Langley RCMP are using their crime analyst to see if other attacks of this nature have taken place.

“There are undoubtably other men who haven’t come forward to the police,” said Cpl. Holly Marks. She urges those men to call her or come in if the woman has attacked them.

She said there isn’t a way for her to track if there has been similar attacks, and she doesn't hold out much hope that the prosecutor or judge will do much about this once the girl is caught, but if she isn't caught the attacks will likely not stop.

Before the attack, Ed was ready to start working again after being off on work-related injury for a year. Now he’ll be off for at least four more weeks without any heavy lifting. After recovery, due to having lost a testicle, he will not be permitted to return to any sort of heavy lifting for the rest of his life due to high risk of hernia.

His EI has run dry.

“It has not been good,” he said.

Ed didn’t get a detailed description of the girl because he didn’t expect her to kick him. She is described as in her 20s, or younger, 5’5” to 5’7”, blonde, blue-eyed and Caucasian. He had never seen her before and doesn’t think he’s seen her since.

If you have information about this person or if this has happened to you, call Langley RCMP at 604-532-3200.

*** Clearly I altered small bits of the story to make it out to be a certain blonde Australian we all know and love, but in reality the girl is described as brunette, and no eye-color was given. The crime itself is not a joke or made-up. It is really happening. The part where it says she will probably not be punished for what she's done is not a joke, either, although it wasn't in the original article.

You know I'm going to follow this story if at all possible, so I'll update it periodically.

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I'm throwing a big-assed party. Oprah is ending her stupid show! OK, it'll probably just be a small party. Most of the people there won't even know it's a party for the end of Oprah. OK, it's really just a bar and I'd be there anyway, but I can pretend we're having a party to celebrate this.

Elizabeth Lambert, the "mean girl" soccer player seen all over the news beating up on BYU soccer girls, has given an interview in which she expresses regret for doing the same things that every other college soccer girl does. People watching the video on the news are shocked. Honestly, I don't see what the big deal is. Apparently many Americans still harbor the illusion that all girls are sugar and spice and everything nice. Thus a female athlete who elbows other girls in the tits and kicks them in the ankle before throwing them to the ground by their hair is simply inconceivable. These would be unathletic Americans who never played or even really watched girls soccer or any soccer, actually, and thus have no idea what goes on out on that playing field. We call those people "Senator" or "Mr. President." Seriously, the girl went a bit far, but isn't it the referee's job to call a penalty on her and put a stop to it? Where the hell was the ref? Why isn't the ref doing interviews filled with apologies for this whole thing?

The new Obama CIA is taking a page out of Tony Blair's playbook and saying "if you can't beat them, join them." So, rather than combat Muslim terrorism, our government has declared itself officially Muslim now and declared Jihad on Christian white male devils. Of course, they had already done this, along with the entire rest of the U.S. government, long, long ago, so it's a barely noticable change, really. This is why our "great leader" refers to the jihad mass murder at Ft. Hood as "a tragedy" rather than "terrorism."

A school in Texas has joined with many others across the nation in banning the latest fashion trend of "skinny pants." The reason is simple: too many teenaged boys have busted a nut trying to sit down in the damn things. Ruptured testicles mean absent students and that costs schools money. It's all about the money really.

American lenders are looking at Obama's economic policies and saying "oh hail no, this shit ain't gonna take us anywhere but down. We're holding tight to every dollar we got 'cause this shit is about to get worse." Yes sir.

The White House and Senate Democrats have turned to a proposal to tax breast implants, tummy tucks, wrinkle-smoothing injections and other predominantly female procedures as they search for ways to pay for their $3 trillion dollar health care government takeover. Earlier this week they tested the waters for health care rationing by trying to tell women that they shouldn't get tested for breast cancer until they're at least 50 years old and have detected a lump the size of a coconut. Most women weren't buying it, though, and instead took it as a warning that government-run healthcare might turn out to be as bad as conservatives have been warning all along.

The Pentagon says it doesn't know why or how the Ft. Hood massacre occurred. It might have something to do with Political Correctness, which is what that U.S. general was promoting when he said he'd rather see more soldiers die than to lose our great weapon of 'diversity' in the military. It might have something to do with that, but our 'leaders' will never ever say so, because that would make too much fucking sense, and making sense is something modern American 'leaders' never do anymore. This is why they don't know how this Muslim terrorist massacre was able to happen right in the middle or our own military base in a state where all the private citizens carry guns and would have shot his ass much quicker if he had tried to do what he did at an average Texas shopping mall.

On YouTube, 15-year-old Alyssa Bustamante listed her hobbies as "killing people" and "cutting." It may have sounded like a really lame video, but authorities say she fulfilled her words when she killed 9-year-old Elizabeth Olten and got a shitload of hits on her video as a result. Alyssa, it turns out, is batshit crazy and tried to kill herself 2 years ago. No one took this as any sort of warning, so then she decided to kill herself AND a neighbor "just to see what it feels like." But first she made a hugely successful video announcing what she was going to do.

Heidi Klum and her post-baby body led the parade at the annual Victoria's Secret fashion show, which returned to New York with some fresh faces after four years on the road. There's nothing funny or sarcastic about this. I just wanted an excuse to post a picture of Heidi Klum.

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OZARK, Ark. -- Ozark police said they were called to a home where a mother asked for help with her unruly child, but the 10-year-old's father said he's outraged at the force police used against his daughter.

"I would like to say Ozark police Tased this little girl right here. Ten years old and [they] shot electricity through her body, and I want to know how the heck in God's green earth can they get away with this," said the girl's father, Anthony Medlock.

Medlock said his daughter was at her mother's house when Ozark police Officer Dustin Bradshaw shocked her in the back with a Taser and arrested her.

"If you can't pick the kid up and take her to your car, handcuff her, then I don't think you need to be an officer," Medlock said.

Medlock said his daughter does show signs of having emotional issues, but she "doesn't deserve to be treated like a dog. She's not a tiger."

According to a police report, the officer was called to the home by the mother and witnessed the child kicking and screaming.

The officer's statement said the girl's mother, Kelly Hamlert, told him to use a Taser on her if he needed to.

Medlock said this is not the first time the girl's mother has called police to take her daughter to a juvenile facility. He said he will now try to get custody of his daughter.

"She just wants somebody to love her, and I do," he said.

40/29 News checked with several other police agencies about their taser policies. The Fort Smith Police Department said it will only uses a Taser on a person 14 years old or older if they are a threat to someone.

Fort Smith Police said it's usually the discretion of each police department to make their own policies on using a Taser.

Noggle said no action is being taken against the Ozark officer who used the Taser on the girl, and he said her case will go before the juvenile court system.

Now we're both riding the Pain Train

OK, so this happened not far from Memphis just the other day. What do you think?

Is he a bad cop for Tazing her? What was he supposed to do once his balls were busted and he could hardly stand up or defend himself anymore? What would you have done if you were the cop?

Are her parents shitheads for raising a daughter that behaves like a wild animal and then calling the cops on her?

Are her parents shitheads for teaching her to use sexual violence at such a young age? How old should a child be before they're taught to use sexual violence? How young is too young to be taught that kind of viciousness?

What if she had kicked him in the throat or gouged his eyes instead, both being techniques often taught alongside groin assault? Would that change your opinion?

Should she be congratulated for being a strong, independent girl and fighting back in the exact way almost all American girls are taught these days?

Is she just a punk bitch diva in need of a serious beating to adjust her attitude? Should he have Tazed her longer or more times to teach her a lesson?

Do you think the cop used amazing restraint considering he had a gun and could have just gone off on her and shot her after what she did to him? Or is he just a psycho who should be fired for Tazing a 10-year-old girl?

I'm not going to offer an opinion on this story. I just want your opinion.

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OK, so just to clarify things, sometimes when I blog, I blog from where I am at that moment. Sometimes I write based on how I feel at that exact moment. And sometimes because of that, the shit hits the fan.

No shit has really hit my fan as yet, but it will. And in the meantime, I want to make clear that, first of all, I'm aware that there are women in this world who don't hate men and aren't jumping up and down in their seats, laughing hysterically whenever a man is crying or dying. And second of all, thank God for those women and that many of you are among them. Sometimes it just seems so hopeless, and if not for many of you, I might just give up.

Yesterday I was confronted with several women in a row, all of whom, it turns out, find a good sexual torture or castration scene to be hysterical. And these aren't women I only know on the internet. These are women I know here, face-to-face, in my daily life, some of whom join me on occasion for alcohol and laughing at stupid shit. But we never laughed at this kind of shit. Not while I was present, anyway.

And then there are the men. There are men who live their life by the motto, "it's funny as long as it never happens to me." And then they go gufawing through life praying to God that the things they find so funny when it happens to other men never, ever happens to them. And then it does and they lose a nut. So from then on we harass them for being such assholes by calling them "nuts" a lot.

There's a lot of bad shit happening here in the United States of Narcissism. You're probably expecting me to begin listing them all out in annoying detail and discussing each and every one. Well, not right now, but I probably will eventually. We've had a problem here that has been building and building ever since the Baby Boomers took over the world and now they seem determined to ... OK, what the fuck is this coming on the TV?

Apparently Sissy Spacek has a series on Showtime now? Maybe it's a movie. Whatever it is, I don't feel like it. Suppposedly Rebecca Romijn is in it. I like her. Maybe I'll give it a chance just to see what Rebecca does ... ooh, cool Ford Galaxy! OK, I'm giving this thing a chance, just to see if there's more cool old cars and a naked Rebecca Romijn.

Rebecca Romijn

Ooh, Rebecca's playing a cop. I hope that uniform comes off sometime soon. I like her. She's cool.

About 9 months ago, maybe more, I borrowed some DVDs from a friend, 2 full seasons of a popular American TV series. I've had one of those DVDs sitting in my DVD player for the past 2 months without once even turning the thing on. I don't know what's wrong with me. I haven't watched a DVD in months. I have the TV on, but I only barely watch it. I have a stack of books and magazines, all filled with information that I very much want to read. I always seem to end up at the computer, researching things that are on my mind, generally not liking what I'm finding out, and not really sure how to do anything about any of it. And the night slips away before I know it.

There are so many things that I want to say. And yet, I don't really want to talk about any of them. I'm sick of them. I'm sick of trying to face them and fight them and figure out a way to do something about them. I can't make a difference and yet I can't quit trying. I guess I figure I'm not defeated until I stop fighting and resign myself to things. I just can't do that. In the words of radical Leftist Saul Alinksy, "reconciliation means that when one side gets the power and the other side gets reconciled to to it, then we have reconciliation."

One of my U.S. Senators for the state of Tennessee just betrayed us all once again. He's a professional politician, a worthless sack, a sticky, dribbling twat. Mister Senator, dude, you suck.

OK, I'm beginning to think this movie I'm watching belongs on the Hallmark channel. Nothing against the Hallmark channel, but there's no way in hell I'm ever going to see Rebecca Romijn in the buff there, and I really, really want to.

Dude, you don't ever pick up another man's guitar and just start playing it without asking. Shit!

Anyway, what was I talking about? Nothing, right? I was going on and on about nothing. I've been searching for the right words for months. I research and I write and I include link after link to videos and newspaper articles and anything I can find that helps to make my point, but it's all for nothing. Nobody's listening up there. I'm not a lawyer or a lobbyist or a well-connected billionaire so nothing I say ever reaches anything but deaf ears.

It's almost midnight here. I don't know what time it was when I started writing, but it was hours ago. I've pissed away half the night here in this chair, running in circles never really saying what I want to say. I've said it already. I guess I'm sick of saying it.

I remember when I was a kid, my best friend's grandmother would drive everyone crazy. She'd be calling his name to try to manipulate him into doing something for her and he wasn't having any part of it, so he'd just ignore her. She'd never quit, though. It must have looked crazy to anyone witnessing it without knowing them. She'd go "Tony? Tony? Tony? Tony? Tony? TONY? TONY? TONY? Answer me, Tony! Tony? Tony? Tony? TONY! Tony, answer me! Tony? Tony? Tony? Tony? ...." on and on and on and on.

Should I become like her? Should I just keep on until something changes, until someone listens, until I find myself wondering if anyone can even hear me anymore?

OK, so apparently the car is a '68 Torino. I swear it looks like a Galaxy. It's the same tail lights and bumpers and everything. Anyway, guess I was wrong.

I was in Washington, DC, once. It was 10 years ago. I went there for what was supposed to be a meeting of a so-called men's organization. Only it turned out to be something else entirely. It was the most politically correct group of male feminists I had seen since Phil Donahue had his own show. Oh, I don't mean the men in the crowd of over 1 million desperate, angry, betrayed men were male feminists. No, it was the men up on the stage, the men who were supposed to be our leaders, our saviors, our guides to freedom. And across the street, with all the cameras on her, was the president of the National Organization for Women, shrilly lying about how the men "over there" were the biggest threat to womens' rights that there had ever been. I know this because once I realized what a bunch of cunts the men up on the stage were, I got up and walked off, over across the street, to the feminists who were spewing a raw hatred of every male in the world, but especially the males across the street. I looked at this woman speaking, Patricia Ireland, screaming about how much of a threat the men were, and then I looked back at the men I had walked away from. I could still hear them speaking, their voices echoing through amplifiers and loud speakers, telling the crowd of men that they should do whatever the feminists said, that the feminists are always right and the men should follow and surrender their manhood and their rights. It was almost as if someone had paid them to say those things. Or threatened them with blackmail. Or maybe they had just cut off their balls and lobotomized them like Vice President Joe Biden had done to him? I don't know, but someone had gotten to them. There was nothing the least bit manly about anything they had to say.

So I got back on the train and left.

Now I'm looking at my elected 'leaders' and I'm listening to what they're saying. I'm searching them, looking at each one of them, hoping that just one of them will stand up and speak the damn truth. I'm looking for just one person with some integrity and balls. I know how much harder it is now than it was just 10 years ago before our 'leaders' decided to give $10 billion of American men's tax dollars to a pink mafia that has openly declared its intention of killing every single one of us. So now the pink mafia has its own courts and its own secret police, complete with a military-sized budget, its own branch of the Department of Justice, and so much power that every man, woman, and tranny hooker in Washington is scared shitless of them.

But I'm not going to talk about that. I'm going to turn off this computer, read a book to relax myself, and then I'm going to bed. If I'm lucky I won't dream anything at all. Or maybe I'll dream of a beach somewhere far, far away. But more than likely, like it or not, I'm going to dream about this stupid movie I just watched all the way through which never showed Rebecca Romijn in the nude, never convinced me it wasn't made for the Hallmark channel, and just basically wasted 2 hours of my time. Dammit.

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Today I came face-to-face with a horrible reality that I simply cannot comprehend. I had raised an issue over on PukeBook, a short statement commenting on the absurdity of our soldiers being crucified for frightening and generally humiliating "enemy combatants" in a college fraternity-like manner, while our own American police officers are literally sexually torturing American citizens with stun guns and Tasers, sometimes to the point of agonizing death, with total impunity.

Several female commenters responded with amusement, telling me about the latest American movie to depict the torture of a man with a Taser as humorous entertainment. They said it was "hilarious." I responded by simply pointing out that this is not just a joke. It is really happening, and often involves torture of the genitals. They didn't care. One woman said she wants to see men "Tasered in the balls until they blow."

After this, I met a female friend for drinks out at a favorite place of hers. I mentioned someone telling me there is a funny movie featuring men being Tasered by the police. She knew immediately what film I was talking about.

"That's "The Hangover" and it's hilarious. These guys have been arrested and it's take your kid to work day or something. So there's this fat kid and one of the guys had been really mean to him. So the cop is telling them about the Taser and offering to show them how it works. Then he says "You can try it if you want. You can Taser one of these men in the nuts." Then the fat kid says "I want to Taser HIM in the nuts" and points to the guy who was mean to him. Then he shoots him in the nuts with both of the things that stick to you and is hurting him really bad, shocking his nuts, you know. The guy falls down and is lying there hurt really, really bad. It was soooo funny."

As I sat there looking into the eyes of this woman, a woman I have been friends with for 5 years or more, I began to feel sick to my stomach. Hearing her describe a man being so horrifically tortured, and for so little reason, and to say that it was "hilarious" bothered me more than I can explain. Realizing that the women on PukeBook had been talking about this same scene, but never mentioned that the reason they liked it so much was because a man was tortured in his testicles, upset me even more. All the women thought it was funny. More than just funny, they thought it was "hilarious."

Apparently my face revealed how I felt about what she had just described to me, because she stopped smiling and said "I guess it was kind of mean. He was on the floor hurt really bad." I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I felt as if I was literally going to throw up. It wasn't simply the horrific nature of the described scene that upset me. It wasn't the fact that I have seen endless videos of this being done to real men in the real world. It was the utter glee of the women at seeing a man treated this way. In fact, it was the fact that all the women absolutely loved seeing a man abused so badly that upset me even more than the description of the scene itself. I had seen this same hatred from women at karate tournaments in years past whenever any male combatant fell to the floor screaming and holding his crushed testicles. The women in the stands would go berserk, screaming and cheering with an animal blood-lust in their eyes, openly expressing an inexplicable hatred of a man or boy they didn't know and clearly didn't see as a fellow human being.

Earlier this morning, while researching a future blog post, I ran across a long, detailed article about the Mary Winkler murder trial. On page 17 is an interview with the jury foreman. He said the jury was stacked unfairly based on sex from the beginning, with 10 women and only 2 men, and that 9 of the 10 women did not care about the facts of the case at all, or about any pretense of justice. They cared only that the murderous woman claimed he treated her badly sometimes, and evidence or no evidence, that was good enough for them. They were going to just let her go, free and clear, with a total acquittal. To hell with the man she shot in the back with a shotgun at close range, blowing a huge hole in his spine and several vital organs, before leaving him there on the floor choking in his own blood for 20 minutes before he finally died. To hell with the daughter who witnessed the cold-blooded murder of her father and testified that he did not abuse her mother and that she feared and despised her mother and did not wish to ever see her again. To hell with law and justice. To hell with equal protection under the law. To hell with any laws at all. Men are not human beings and do not deserve to live.

In men's movies, at least in years past, it was the villains of the film who would kidnap the hero's girlfriend or sister, rape her, and then let her go. He never tortured her or ripped her vagina apart. He never stabbed her ovaries with barbed spears before frying them with high voltage. The most evil of guy-movie villains would simply force himself upon her, making her have sex with him. Then he'd let her go home to tell her boyfriend or brother, so that he'd be upset and fight with the villain.

And it was certainly never the hero who did this to a woman.

The reason this scenario was used so frequently in guy-movies was because it always elicited the same response for the mostly-male audience. Men and boys were enraged at the idea of a woman being sexually abused or tortured. In fact, men are so enraged by it that to my knowledge no film has ever shown a woman being sexually abused or tortured to elicit a response of laughter from any of the males in the audience. It has always been a given that male audiences will not laugh at such a horrible thing. The male reaction to abuse of females has always been the same - rage.

And apparently, the female reaction to the most horrific of sexual tortures or even mutilations of males elicits the same response in almost all females - laughter, celebration, orgasmic jubilation.

The horror associated with the reality that American police officers, and increasingly American citizens, are shooting men in the testicles with sharpened bullets that spear the scrotum before frying the testicles with 50,000 volts for however long the torturer feels like holding the trigger down, is bad enough. But the horror associated with the reality that women are so consumed with seemingly limitless hatred of all males, no matter how young or old, complete stranger or their own husband, brother, father, or son, is heartbreaking to me.

Why? Why are women so filled with hatred of males that absolutely nothing is too cruel or evil when done to males, in the opinions of females, including castration and murder? And why is this pathological hatred considered acceptable by anyone? What is so wrong between men and women that men are willing to simply accept a hatred by women that would be violently condemned and even criminalized in anyone else? Has it always been this way or is this a relatively recent phenomenon?

But most importantly, just WHY????

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misandry /
sexual torture /
taser /
the hangover
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It's Thursday. And thank God I'm here to tell you all what day it is all week long, right? I mean, what would you do without me? Stating the obvious: it's a service I offer.

I think my personal trainer is trying to see if he can grind my shoulders down until there's nothing left. I mean, OK, I try to gut it out when he asks me how my shoulders are doing. I admit that maybe one of them is hurting, but hell, it's always hurting, so I just say 'to hell with it' and keep working out. Honestly, if I stopped working out when something was fucked up on my body, I would never have been able to run track or play soccer or do pretty much anything that I like. I even have injuries that relate to having sex. I shit you not. But do you think I'm going to let that stop me from having more sex? Oh hell no!

Anyway, lately my shoulder is just screaming. It says to me, "you better stop with the gazillion reps and find something else to work on or I'm going to send you back to your best friend, Mr Orthopedic Surgeon, for a new surgery." Yep, my shoulder can't remember my surgeon's name, so he just calls him "Mr. Orthopedic Surgeon." My knee, on the other hand, remembers his name perfectly. But that's another story, and it isn't particularly entertaining or anything so let's skip it.

I guess tomorrow when I'm at the gym I may have to ask my trainer to focus on legs. It's really a problem now that I have this bruise inside the ball of my foot, because it prevents me from going running. Meanwhile, the heavy leg presses and sprinting up the stairs seems to be bothering my knee. No, not the one that Mr. Orthopedic Surgeon knows so intimately. The other one. Yeah, I've had a LOT of injuries over the span of my lifetime, so this comes as no surprise to me.

There have been times when I become convinced that God made me out of plastic parts while everyone else was made of higher quality metal parts, sort of like the difference between a John Deere or Cub Cadet lawn tractor you buy at Home Depot versus one you buy from an actual authorized dealer.

So anyway, there is a very real shortage of hot girls at my gym and I think it's causing me to get hurt as a result. My body is just not feeling inspired. My brain is fully aware of how badly I need to work out, but my body is looking around and saying "what the hell, dude, there is nothing here worth going through this much pain over."

There was a study recently in which it was discovered that men actually benefit health-wise from being around hot girls. It is particularly relevant in the gym, because when men are around really hot girls and checking them out, it causes the men to produce more testosterone. Testosterone is what makes men healthy and happy. The lack of it makes us irritable and mean.

Women produce testosterone, too, just at lower levels than men do. And men's brains convert testosterone to estrogen as needed for things like verbalization and such. I realize it's considered politically incorrect to say that high levels of estrogen give women an advantage at things like writing and speaking skills, while testosterone seems to give men an edge in things like math and science and cage fighting, but listen here, God doesn't give a flying fart whether his designs are politically correct or not. He built us the way we are for a reason and our refusal to use what he's given us to the fullest instead of bitching and arguing that it's sexist to point out that men and women are different is just pure stupidity and sin.

Sin, by the way, causes death, which brings us back to testosterone and hot girls at the gym and men feeling very much alive. See, if you cut off a guy's balls and don't give him some sort of testosterone supplements, you've basically killed him. He has other, much smaller sources of testosterone, but the main source being gone is a huge problem affecting both his body and his brain. As I said, men's brains convert testosterone into estrogen as needed for speech and communication and such. Some scientists theorize that autism is simply a case of extreme maleness because much of the advantages women have are so often missing in autistic children, while the masculine traits are often intact. I don't know if there is any truth to this. It's just something I read.

Either way, when men are in the gym working out and checking out the hot babes who are also in the gym with them, all sweaty and glistening and striking oddly pornographic poses, it causes men's bodies to produce a lot more testosterone.

Did you know that every time a guy gets a boner his body is jacking up the testosterone in his bloodstream at the same time? Boners are actually good for us, like vitamins, which should be taken orally every day.

So anyway, men who work out need to find every way possible to increase their testosterone levels. It's what makes muscles grow and heal rapidly. It's why athletes who want to gain an edge, male and female alike, will inject anabolic steroids, essentially pure testosterone, into their veins while looking at naked photos of Victoria's Secret supermodel Marisa Miller. It makes you strong.

Sure, you can get too much of a good thing. You can overdose on estrogen, too. Just look at Joe Biden to see what too much estrogen does to a person. He's a giant cuntbag. Look at Rosie O'Donnell, she's batshit crazy. Look at feminism in general. It's estrogen poisoning turned into a massive religion of death and destruction and shrill screaming about a mythical "war on women" by the very same crazy people who are actively engaging in a war on men. Similarly, too much testosterone makes people ugly. It can produce a level of crazy virtually identical to feminism, except that instead of inspiring men to kill babies and their spouses and try to castrate every men alive, it inspires them to try to fight everyone they meet until someone shoots them or puts them into prison or in some sort of steel octagon.

But overall, testosterone is a good thing. It makes both men and women feel good. It makes us feel alive. And it makes us horny and happy.

That's probably why the U.S. Government has outlawed virtually anything and everything that increases testosterone in the body, because it makes men happy.

Anyway, the point I was trying to make is that I think I'm going to look into switching gyms. There's a gym much closer to my work that I need to check out. It's a local university gym. It's huge. I was in their athletic program on a scholarship when I went to school there and supposedly I have a lifetime free membership as a result. Of course, last time I asked about that no one seemed to know what I was talking about, so that may mean very little. The bottom line, though, is that the gym is filled with beautiful college girls who, even while ignoring me, will cause my body to produce higher levels of testosterone and thus heal faster. I really need to heal faster. Of course, that'll mean finding a new trainer, but in the long run I think it might be a good move. Maybe I'll find a new trainer who is a hot girl, too, and just working out with her will make me feel better and heal faster? Hey, you never know.

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Today is Veterans Day here in the land of the Double Whopper with extra cheese. I honestly did not realize this until about 5 minutes ago. Today is a day in which we are all given an opportunity to express some sort of gratitude to all the men, and recently more and more women, who have sacrificed of themselves to serve our country and defend our freedom. I suppose this day is all the more poignant following the recent deaths of our soldiers in Afghanistan as well as the mass murder of soldiers at Ft Hood by a Muslim terrorist who himself was a member of our armed forces.

My father was a veteran. He was a graduate of West Point military academy. Oddly, he was not proud of this. When West Point came looking to recruit me, due to my high grades and test scores, my father fought tooth and nail to stop me from going. I have never fully understood this, and considering where I ended up going as a result of his interference, I can't help but wonder if I'd have been much better off had I fought a little harder. Who can say? I might've ended up in the Middle East and been killed. I'll never know. Regardless, following my father's death I took as much of his remaining West Point items as I could find and stored them away. He may not have been overly proud of his achievement, but the rest of the family is. His sheepskin West Point diploma hangs on my wall.

I cannot say that I fully understand why we invaded Afghanistan and have remained there for the past 7 or 8 years fighting a random and rambling enemy. I cannot say that I fully understand why we invaded Iraq other than that our President was informed that Saddam had acquired nuclear weapons capabilities. We did eventually find evidence that supported this, but it appears that most of whatever he had was quietly shipped off to Syria to avoid capture. Whatever the case, and whatever the reason, I want to express my support of our military for the sacrifices they are making in going to these Godforsaken places and risking their lives every day.

Happy Veterans Day!

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So it's Tuesday. It's raining. It's kind of cold outside. Everything is gray. A muslim soldier in our military went Taliban on our ass and shot and killed 13 of our finest before being shot himself by a girl. Our president, Mrs. Obama, took his/her time responding to this crisis, calling it a "tragedy" rather than a mass murder, and stating only that s/he hopes this doesn't lead to a lot of "extremists" being mean to Muslims.

President Obama

Yes, because WE are the extremists in the twisted minds of the Hard-Core America-hating Left.

A REAL presidential response would have been something more along the lines of this:

"We were attacked yet again by hate criminals of the Muslim faith, taking the lives of 13 of our nation's soldiers. I want to make something clear, we fight to defend religious freedom in this country, but we don't tolerate those who encourage the murder of our people. We don't tolerate those whose religions are purely the spreading of hatred. We will allow you to live in our lands and worship as you please, up to and until the moment that you abuse the rights of others, at which time we will shoot your ass and send what's left of you to Syria where you will be dropped from 30,000 feet while wrapped up in a potato sack. Should your faith manage to save you from death and you land safely, good luck to you living in a nation that believes as you do, but you will NOT be permitted to return here. Not ever."

That would be far more appropriate. Of course, we elected cuntbag Oprah's love-child here, so that's nothing like what we got or can expect to get at any point in the future. Once upon a time, we had leaders in this nation, men other nations referred to as 'cowboys'. Cowboy is another way of saying "this man has balls." We have no more cowboys. We have estrogen-filled water supplies and progesterone-filled meat and anything any woman wants to buy that raises her hormone levels is fine and government-approved. Eat it, drink it, rub it on, and then pee it back out again into our water supply for men and boys to drink. Estrogen, of course, kills testosterone in men, making them weak and whiney, like our current President. Meanwhile, anything that might raise a man's testosterone levels is illegal in America. Heaven forbid our men become more manly. We can't have that. So we have outlawed manhood. Now we are a nation more pathetic than France, where their president is not only a real man, but dates supermodels to prove it.

Parlez vous francais, pilgrim?

Our President married the first girl who ever had sex with him, a woman with the face of a Pekingese dog. Then he surrounded himself with lesbians so they could tell him what to do. This is the only life he has ever known, having been raised by his grandmother due to his parents both having abandoned him for most of his life. Being pushed around by saggy old ladies who don't have sex with men is normal to him. He wouldn't know what to do otherwise.

Mrs Obama, Mrs Obama and Mrs Obama

In other, more interesting news, I took the car that my mother sideswiped to a bodyshop and had it fixed. So now it's all shiny and new again. Except for the radio. The radio is a pathetic pile of crap. I need to put something better in there, but it's not legally my car and I don't really want to put money into some rockin' tunes if I'm not going to be taking ownership of it.

My mom almost hit the car again yesterday as she was backing out of the driveway. Then she yelled at ME about it, mostly out of embarrassment, but also out of habit. Blame the Nearest Male is not only the official policy of the American Judicial System and U.S. Government. It's also my mother's default response.

Facebook is killing me. I've resorted to posting status updates relating to my need to poop, my return from pooping, farts that preceded my need to poop, and farts released by other people around me. No one seems to mind, which tells me only that everyone else is as bored as I am.

One thing I did learn from Facebook is that some of the retired rockers I met at the Halloween party the other night used to tour with Iron Maiden and a few other bands that I used to listen to. They've posted really old pictures on their Facebook pages of them backstage or in bars or onstage doing various things with the members of Maiden, as well as a few other bands I cared much less about. I just remember Iron Maiden because I lost more hearing at their concert than at any other concert I have ever attended in my entire life. And also I remember something about drugs, and somebody screaming really loudly, only the music was so loud that I could only tell she was screaming by the intense expression on her face as she totally freaked out upon seeing the 20 foot tall 'Eddie' puppet run out onto the stage. Apparently whatever she was on did not induce mellow feelings. She was flipping while tripping.

I'm not liking these drugs!

Wow, the sky outside looks funky right now. I guess this is the result of tropical storm Ida. Did you know that a black woman in Congress tried to mandate that our weather agency give more 'black names' to hurricanes? I'm not making this up. She couldn't exactly define what constituted a black name, but she wanted more black hurricanes anyway.

As I write this Facebook is hitting me with a Database Error and telling me I can't reply to anything. That's awesome. I just love when that happens. It makes me want to beat my dick against the table and scream "Jumanji" as loudly as I can. Yes, indeed it does. Because that's what you do, right, when the internet is fucking up and driving you insane? I guess we all express our insanity in various different ways.

Jumanji!!!

I'm trying to Twitter now. Facebook crashed and my dick was hurting from bashing it on the table, so I moved on to the equally useless and annoying Twitter. I'm tweeting. I'm tweeting my meat. Speaking of that, Super Dave Osbourne is on TV. Do you guys know who Super Dave Osbourne is?

Super Dave Osbourne

He's this old annoying man who started off on a lousy TV show that no one watched, and somehow he's still around doing his schtick. He's not funny. He never was. To give you an idea of how not funny he is, he's got a golf skit where he puts a golf tee in his mouth and lets another golfer hit the ball out of his mouth. Except, of course, the golfer misses and hits him in the nuts instead. It's the sort of gag Beavis and Butthead would think is funny.

Anyway, what's the deal with Super Dave's voice? He talks like he sucked a helium balloon completely down into his lungs and never coughed it up again. His voice is all ragged like a shirt from Walmart after its first washing, like Lindsay Lohan's vagina after a night of thrustful lesbian fun with the entire California chapter of NOW, like a plastic hybric car after a collision with OJ Simpson's Ford Bronco, like Oprah Winfrey's panties after a night gorging on Mexican food and farting, like the US Constitution after our Congress finishes with it, like Perez Hilton's ass after interviewing the Jonas Brothers. Anyway, Super Dave's voice was always shitty, but these days it's the worst I've ever heard. I don't know how he gets on TV at all, especially talk shows, with a voice like that.

Speaking of Twitter, Demi Moore tweets in text-code, as if she's talking to a middle school child using her cell phone. I can't understand a word she says. But I reply anyway, 'cause I figure if I can't understand what she's saying, she probably can't understand what I'm saying either. I've even tested this just to make sure. I replied to one of her totally unreadable tweets by saying I wanted to eat her vagina for 4 straight hours. I even included a link to a webcam photo of my tongue just to show that I was serious. Creepy, but serious. I figured if she didn't reply to that she clearly didn't understand me. She didn't reply, but 1,200 other women did.

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After a year and a half of listening to the radio stations here in Pigeon Hole, Alabama, I still can't stand this very popular radio show out of North Carolina. John Boy and Billy, the good ole' boys with their crew of goofballs and giggling girls never make me laugh. I think I know why, though. I've always known why. It's because John Boy's southern accent is phonier than a speech by President Obama.

OK Spiky, that was the only thing I'm going to say about Obama, OK? Don't get upset. You know I love you.

John Boy may very well actually be from the South, but he's a trained radio announcer. They trained that southern drawl right out of him. Then they asked him to bring it back and exaggerate it for the radio. Well, faking and exaggerating a southern accent in the South is like taking a French car, putting a Japanese label on it, and trying to sell it to the Japanese. They won't take long to figure out that this shit ain't right.

Mondays suck

So, it's Monday again. I don't know if my workout jacked up my testosterone and somehow resulted in my becoming extra irritable, or my lack of sleep and fatigue from traveling last night finally caught up with me right in the middle of the afternoon and turned all my T in estrogen, but I nearly killed some people today. And they were old, relatively defenseless people, too. Well, defenseless except for the big fucking truck they were driving very badly. And yes, I mean 'they' were driving because Mrs. Shithead was doing her best to drive from the passenger seat while Mr. Shithead looked everywhere other than at the road. Man, if you don't want to be driving just now, that thing has 4-wheel-drive, get it off the road and hit the weeds, you cuntbag!

They were doing 25 mph. I shit you not. 25 mph. And the old bitch in the lane next to them, apparently mistaking this for a passive/aggressive attack on us "youngsters", decided to copy them and do 25, too, while sticking right next to them and not letting anyone escape.

This used to be a popular game here in Rocketown, you see. My mother and her passive/aggressive feminazi cuntbag friends would all do this every time they got behind the wheel of some of America's largest luxury vehicles ever constructed, back in "the day." These days, most women drive faster than the men, and won't hesitate to throw heavy shit at you in traffic if they think you're driving too slowly. But back in "the day", when my mom and her generation were ruling the roads, driving slow and preventing everyone else from reaching their destination was a huge feminist trend. It was a way of saying, "we're here, we're bitches, get used to it."

These days my mom is once again driving one of the largest American luxury liners currently available, but she's gotten to be such a bad driver in her old age that its all she can do to keep the ship on the road, let alone worry about what everyone else is doing. Plus, I think she heard about my niece kicking another female driver in the vagina and it scared her.

I'm joking. My niece never told my mom about kicking the shit out of that woman. We kept it a secret. Either way, she's clearly noticed the change in female attitudes in traffic. No longer are The Girls her sisters in arms. It's every woman for herself. Today they are cell-phone talking, estrogen-injecting, gotta-get-to-work, kick-your-bitch-ass, Defense Department, blow-your-country-to-hell engineer types, and they most certainly would kick Mom's ass for the shit she and her friends used to do in traffic on a regular basis. It's ironic, really, how no men ever reacted this way, despite the anti-male stereotypes she helped promote, yet it's the women now that Mom is scared of. Karma's a bitch, and she'll kick you in the cooter, too.

I have a female friend, she's got a serious problem. No, it has nothing to do with women kicking old ladies in the cooter. It's about her boyfriend. You see, he won't shut up. I mean, when she wants him to talk, he's got nothing to say. But when they're in the middle of drilling for oil in her Happy Place with his skin flute, that's when he suddenly feels the urge to talk his damn fool head off.

"Ooh, this is so good. Hey, how about I switch over and go from behind? Hey, why are you closing your eyes? Is this good for you? I'm going to stroke your thighs now. Can you feel me swelling up bigger? I'm not gonna come. I've got it under control. Why are you sticking your fingers in your ears and singing "LA LA LA LA" like that? Are you mad about something? Did you see any football games yesterday? Man, Alabama sure kicked LSU's ass. It was great. What's wrong? I think I've gotta pee. But I can wait. What do you think about when we're doing it? Why are you frowning? blah blah blah ..."

Can you imagine dealing with this? Dude, shut the hell up! Your woman is trying as hard as she can to imagine she's with someone far hotter than you and you just keep screwing the whole thing up for her.

I actually suggested that, in addition to condoms, she might need to bring duct tape when she goes over to his place next time. She has been too embarrassed to try this so far. I don't think her embarrassment is going to last much longer, though. He's really pissing her off. If there's one thing you don't want to piss of a woman about, it's sex. There's a lot of things they'll let slide for a very long time - toilet seats, pee on the floor in front of the toilet, socks in the aquarium - but not screwing up their orgasms. Oh no, buddy, that's when a woman gets murderously violent. Someone needs to warn this chattering jackrabbit to shut his piehole and just get on with it before she puts a bullet in his head. Problem is, I don't know the guy. I just know her. And I know she's about to explode if he doesn't shut up.

Women always say they only ever think about Their Man when they're doing it. They always claim they never think about some celebrity or some hot guy from the gym. I don't believe that. If that were true, Justin Timberlake's career would have ended long ago. I know half the women in America are thinking about him. And in the rest of the West, I suppose it's probably Mr. Beckham. They just won't admit it. Probably out of fear that they'll so hurt Their Man's feelings that he won't be able to get it up next time, or he'll start talking all through sex to distract them so they can't imagine they're doing their Dream Man and get off. Either one is pretty annoying to a woman. But only one is likely to get a man shot.

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Mrs. Memphis and I were invited to a Halloween party this year. The party was in a part of town where, when I was younger, everyone always wished to live. It's up on top of a steep hill, with perfect houses, all very large, and everyone and everything up on that hill somehow just better. They were the rich people up on that hill, the privileged, the elite.

Going up there is a bit like shifting into low gear and driving your car right up into Heaven. Except that you hit a Stop sign at the top. And then we had to hang a right, and then the first left, and just over the rise there is the house on the left. OK, so Heaven has detailed instructions. You could Mapquest it.

I wanted to go as something practical, which meant no latex masks covering my face like I'd worn for so many Halloweens in the past. And I wanted something that everyone would like, so no politicians or celebrities. Most of all, I wanted people to be happy when they saw me coming.

So, I thought it over, and I decided that the only logical choice was for me to go to the party dressed as Captain Morgan, the pirate on the rum bottle. There's always rum when you're Captain Morgan!

Mrs. Memphis, for reasons known only to her, had always wanted to go to a Halloween party dressed as a witch.

My costume cost a good bit of money. It would have been cheaper to piece it together and rent most of it, but I didn't know that until it was too late. All the individual accessories - 2 musket pistols, sword, boots, belt, etc - had to be purchased separately. Luckily, I'm a packrat and a freak. I already had a perfect pair of boots. I also had a real cavalry sword. My niece asked me about it as I was getting ready for the party.

"Where'd you get the costume?"

"I bought the coat and hat and these floppy things that slip over my boots to give the floppy boot-top effect."

"What about that sword?" she asked.

"I already had the sword."

"Oh, of course you did," she said sarcastically. Yes, because who doesn't have a sword lying around, right?

Mrs. Memphis' witch dress looked like hell. Luckily she had a skin tight little black dress that I had bought for her years ago that worked just fine. And it looked a hell of a lot better, too. Other than the dress, all a witch needs is hose, black shoes, and a hat. She was ready in no time flat.

We arrived at the party right on time. There was a 1940 supercharged, emergency orange, flamed Chevrolet coupe parked in the drive in front of the house. There was no way you could miss the house with that car out front.

We entered through the front door. A few younger partiers were upstairs, scarfing up all the food in the kitchen. We quickly moved past them to the stairs and went down into the den, where the real party was.

In the den was a large open room with fireplace, and a well-stocked bar complete with Angela the bartender. Angela is a real bartender, a pro. Life has sure changed since college days when we just grabbed whatever was behind the bar or drank straight from the keg.

There was also a band. It was made up of the husbands of various women I knew at the party. But this was no ordinary band. Everyone in the band was, either in the 1980s or '90s, in some semi-famous band, and has actually made a good chunk of change working as rock stars. That's all over now, and they mostly play for fun, although they do still get paid. When they played, it was serious business. And the drunker I got, and less able to get off the bar stool, the more I began to realize just how different it was to have professional rockers playing a party instead of some friends from school who just like to knock around with guitars and drums and shit. They were awesome. I felt like I should flick a lighter or something. If I'd had a bra, I'd have thrown it at them.

Out in back was a large inground pool, a pool house, and a large 3-car garage. There were a few tables and chairs outside and a fire pit blazing away. There were costumed people everywhere, most of whom I had never met before. And of course, every woman, no matter what her costume, was dressed as a slut. This is the greatest thing about Halloween, really, the way every woman in the world expresses her inner slut as best as she can. There were several slutty witches, slutty superheroes, slutty movie characters, etc. There were slutty moms who brought their slutty teenaged daughters mixing with slutty twenty-somethings and slutty thirty-somethings. There was even a woman who must be at least 50, with a perpetual cigarette blazing and a cigarette laugh that rolls like thunder and can be heard for miles. She was a slutty something or other, too.

At one point a gang of pirates arrived, all theater people, all very shiny and dramatic with their entrance. I knew 2 of them from a birthday party I had attended a few months before at their very own house. It was just down the street at the opposite end of this fabulous neighborhood up in drive-in Heaven. They are married to one another, he being a super-successful executive and she being one of the most charismatic and beautiful women I have ever met in my life. And wouldn't you know it, their swords were real, too? Naturally we took a few pirate photos together after briefly discussing the possibility of looting and pillaging. Someone suggested some raping, it may have even been me, but the pretty pirate seemed far too enthused about the idea in a way that made us all nervous, so we nixed the raping. And then we hid her sword.

Both Mrs. Memphis and I had the time of our lives. We talked to people we knew, people we didn't know until that night, and people we still don't know and can barely remember. And once we were thoroughly sloshed, we enjoyed watching several intoxicated men all trying their best to seduce a French-Canadian model from Montreal who looked good enough to eat. She was tres hawt. And those poor guys got nowhere with her. Oh, but it was sooo much fun to watch them try. We laughed and laughed. Alcohol may have been a factor in how much and how loudly we laughed, but the music was so loud that they never heard us.

Mrs. Memphis spent half the night talking to the French-Canadian model, who was dressed as a slutty witch just like my wife was, before I ever got a chance to meet her myself. She turned out to be fun to talk to and very entertaining. And she made the blood rush to my happy places when she leaned in close to speak in my ear over the sound of the live music. But I have had enough experience with French-Canadian women to know that, no matter how smokin' hot their bodies may be, no matter what they may agree to do to you, they are usually a lot of trouble. And by trouble, I mean drama and flying furniture and kicks in the groin and tears and handcuffs and leather whips and police and chain smoking and pole dancing and more police and a mug shot and a restraining order and changing your phone number and moving and praying to God she never finds you again. Elle est ennui très mauvais.

So deep down inside, even though she was gorgeous, I was glad Mrs. Memphis was with me. And also that I had a sword, a real sword, which might be used to fend off an intoxicated and beautiful French-Canadian model should the need arise.

My friends who hosted the party had once told me that they were big tequila and vodka drinkers. I drained them of Jagermeister and vodka before the night was through, but I brought them some Captain Morgan spiced rum as my contribution to the party. I was pleased when they told me later in the week that they'd loved the rum and were adding it to their list of drinks they enjoy.

I had driven Mrs. Memphis and I to the party. A beautiful female friend, the woman through whom I had met almost every single one of the other people at the party, apparently wanted to get me drunk because she steadily filled me with Jager and Vodka all night long. Her husband was busy playing guitar in the band and she had time on her hands, I suppose, so getting me sloshed became her primary focus. She worked hard on this while my wife was away somewhere chatting up the French Canadian model prior to introducing her to me. Anyway, after the party was over, Mrs. Memphis drove us home again, which was lucky for me. I didn't want to drive, but I don't normally have my own "desitooted" driver. Besides, you should try driving a car while wearing an Ozzie Osbourne/Jamaican hippie wig, pirate hat, boots, and sword. It wasn't easy getting us there while in full costume and I wasn't all that anxious to try it again getting us home.

This was the best Halloween party I have ever attended. And even better, when the host was ending the party, he announced that everyone who had been invited to this year's party, as in every previous party, has a standing invitation to their annual Halloween party for life. You can be sure I'll be going back next year.

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